


Scars and Tears

by veryloyalveryquickly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryloyalveryquickly/pseuds/veryloyalveryquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look at the relationship between Sherlock and John, and how it changes over time, and how they change with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and never will, but a girl can dream.

**_ Scars and Tears _ **

Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Two names, inexorably bound together for the rest of time. Such an unlikely pair, they had been from the beginning, yet who would have known how tolerance would develop into friendship, and then eventually into a love so deep it physically hurt to be apart? Not Sherlock Holmes.

When he had first laid eyes on John Watson, an army doctor recently invalided from Afghanistan, he had seen the man as a potential flatmate, nothing more. But everything changed when John shot the cabbie, and saved his life. After that, something changed between them, something Sherlock could not define, but he felt it keenly. Never before had he met someone like John. John made him feel fear, excitement and something as close the happiness as he had ever felt. They had arguments, but it was often about the things Sherlock found to be insignificant; a callous remark, the lack of milk in the apartment, an experiment gone wrong. Though these things hardly mattered to the detective ("I merely stated a fact John, his father did beat his mother to death with a rolling pin." "Sherlock, he's twelve years old! You can't say that!"), he found himself slowly changing to please John. He actually began to think about what he said before he said it, he took more care concerning his experiments and even picked up some shopping on the rare occasion. He wondered why he the doctor had such an effect on him when neither his parents, nor Mycroft, nor Lestrade had been able to break through the barriers he had put up to separate him from the rest of humanity. But John could, and Sherlock found himself fascinated by his flatmate, and unable to rationalise the reason. John Watson was boring, predictable, or so he told himself. He had to be; he was an ordinary human after all, there was nothing special about him. So why was John Watson anything but boring or predictable? Not matter how many hours Sherlock spent trying to figure John out, he couldn't. Just when he though he could explain John Watson, the man did something to completely invalidate his conclusion. Sherlock was beaten; John was a puzzle he would ever be able to solve.

Sherlock spent so many months cataloguing everything he knew about John in his head.

John enjoyed his tea strong, with plenty of milk and no sugar.

John's favourite food was sushi, Sherlock had learnt when he had dragged the doctor to Chinatown to track down a notorious criminal.

John enjoyed knitting, a hobby passed down from his mother.

John hated the snow.

John was ticklish on his neck and soles of his feet.

There were so many things Sherlock knew about John Watson, but it could never be enough.

John came home one evening to find Sherlock sat on the sofa, hands steepled below his chin. The detective was lost in thought, and John knew better than to interrupt. He was about to go to bed when Sherlock spoke.

"I cannot work you out," he spoke in a voice hardly above a whisper.

"What do you mean?" John turned from the doorway and stared at Sherlock, confused.

"You. You are different. To the others, I mean."

"'The others' being..."

"People. I know almost everything about you John, and according to my knowledge, you should be like everyone else. You should be plain, boring, dull. But you are not, you are different, and there is no reason for it." Sherlock's voice cracked with frustration and he buried his face into his palms. John moved slowly away from the door and towards the sofa. He knelt before Sherlock, placing a gentle hand on the detective's knee, and Sherlock stiffened, lifting his eyes quickly to meet John's. They were full of warmth and understanding.

"Sherlock, not everything has an easy explanation, and not everything can be categorised and identified," John told him gently. "Friendship is about accepting the other person for who they are." Then Sherlock had looked at him, grey eyes shining brightly in the lamplight.

"I've never had a friend before. "

John smiled. "You do now."

In that moment, Sherlock realised that he would never truly understand John Watson. He also realised that he didn't need to; John was his friend, and that's all that mattered.

For months, life continued the way it always had, except one thing had changed. Sherlock now had a friend; a friend to help him and to make sure he didn't get into too much trouble. John became Sherlock's moral compass, and in return Sherlock provided John with what he craved the most; a life of adventure and adrenaline. They were John and Sherlock, the detective and his blogger. During the day, the duo would usually visit a crime scene, where Sherlock would investigate, insult Anderson and eventually give Lestrade his conclusions, sometimes culminating in a wild chase through the streets of London, whilst the evenings were often spent in front of the television together, or talking, or even just sitting in comfortable silence. John would read the newspaper, or work on his blog, whilst Sherlock conducted his experiments at the kitchen table. Everything seemed perfect.

And then came the fall. Sherlock had only just found a friend, and he wasn't willing to lose him yet. So he faked his own death to prevent John's. He never thought about how much John would suffer, thinking that his best friend was dead. It was not until he saw John at his grave, watched him fall apart, that he saw how his decision had affected him. John looked lost, as though his world had come crashing down around him. As he broke down in front of the empty grave, begging Sherlock not to be dead, the detective felt his heart break. Too late, he discovered that he had loved John Watson, loved him with every fibre of his being. That very day, as he watched from the shadows of the cemetery, he vowed that he would come back to John, no matter what it took.

Three years later, Sherlock fulfilled his promise. He came back.

When John entered 221b that night to find his dead friend waiting for him, he passed out. Sherlock caught him before he hit the ground, startled at how thin the man had become. He carried him to his room, cradling the fragile body close to his chest as he made his way slowly up the stairs. He placed him on the bed carefully, tucking the covers around the doctor's skinny frame. John looked terrible. His hair was long and unkempt, and the frown lines of his face had deepened considerably. His eyes were sunken in his head, and he showed every sign of not having eaten or slept in days. Sherlock's insides twisted painfully; he had done this. Just as he got up to leave, he heard a weak voice.

"Don't go. Not again."

In an instant, Sherlock was by John's side, one hand curled around John's whilst the other wiped away the tears on his face. He pulled him close and pressed his lips into the sandy blonde hair, whispering, "I will never go again. Never."

"I never told you how much I love you Sherlock. I thought I'd lost my chance," came the choked whisper. Sherlock felt tears spring into his own eyes and he squeezed John's hand tighter, pulling him into a close embrace.

"I love you. I won't ever leave you." He leant forward and found John's lips with his own. John responded by raising a hand to cup Sherlock's cheek as his tongue entered and explored Sherlock's mouth, tracing the pearly white teeth and Sherlock moaned. He began to suck gently on John's lower lip, feeling John shudder with pleasure. When they broke apart, John gave a breathless grin.

"Guess we're no longer friends."

Sherlock chuckled deeply. "I guess not." They kissed again before drifting off together in the darkness.

And so the friendship became love. In many ways, nothing changed. Sherlock continued to take cases, John continued to write them up in his blog. There were still the fights, still the same old routine. Some days, it seemed as though nothing had happened between them.

But in so many other ways, everything had changed. Sherlock had changed. He was no longer the asexual sociopath John Watson had met years ago in Bart's lab. That Sherlock was cold and callous. He was arrogant, and bold, and thought he knew everything. But John's Sherlock... he was brilliant. He was loving, and tender, and had so much to learn about love. And John would show him.

The first time they had sex, Sherlock had cried. John had instantly been horrified, thinking it was because of the pain. "Oh god, Sherlock, I'm so sorry." Sherlock's ivory skin was covered in red scratches from where John had dragged his fingernails in the heat of the moment. A bite mark on his shoulder, not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to hurt. "Talk to me Sherlock, please."

"John-" Sherlock sobbed. "Oh god." He could not explain how it had felt, their bodies fused together, moving rhymically, slicked by sweat or how amazing it had been when John had pushed deeper, sending them both over the edge. Waves of pleasure had crashed over him, and instantly he had broken down, overcome with love for the man now kneeling in front of him, staring at him with wide, concerned eyes. "John." He wrapped one long hand around his lover's neck, pulling his face close, crashing their lips together. Never could Sherlock get enough of this man. "John, I love you," he whispered and John tugged at the dark curls, smiling into the kiss. Sherlock pressed a hand into John's inner thigh, eliciting a groan. "Do you love me, John?"

"With all my heart," John breathed.

Some days, Sherlock would take John up to the bedroom and remove his clothes slowly. He would lie John across the bed and, with long, pale fingers, would trace every scar on John's body. Years of working with Sherlock had left him with an impressive number. He would run his fingers lightly along John's arm towards the bullet scar on the shoulder. Never had a scar seemed so beautiful, and he would kiss it gently, murmuring, "Mine." His fingers would drift downwards, towards the long, jagged scar on John's stomach, a reminder of the day John had been stabbed whilst chasing a rapist through the back streets of Peckham. "Mine." Then, the smaller scar on his hipbone, where a bullet had grazed the flesh during a struggle in Greenwich Park at night. "Mine." Fingers would trail towards the burn scar on John's leg. A madman had set fire to the house in which Sherlock and John were investigating. Sherlock, who had been upstairs at the time, escaped relatively unharmed. John had almost died. Sherlock would brush the mark gently. "Mine." Finally, he would grasp John's chin and lift his face upwards in order to give his lover a deep, passionate kiss. "Mine."

Most nights, Sherlock would stay awake to watch John sleep and he would muse over their relationship. He had been told by his mother as a small child that one day, he would find his 'soulmate', but as Sherlock had grown older, he had dismissed that idea. There was no scientific proof for a 'soul', and Sherlock found the whole idea, whilst romantic, quite unrealistic. When talking to people, he always referred to John as his 'partner', but that didn't quite describe it. Yes, they were partners, but they were so much more. Were they lovers? Well, they were in love. But the word did not quite capture the deep, emotional connection between them. So what were they?

A few months into their relationship, John managed to convince the detective the attend Lestrade's birthday party. After a lot of grumbling and sulking, they had arrived at the party, and John had immediately gone to find and congratulate Lestrade. Sherlock made his way over to the corner of the room, trying to avoid conversation with anyone. Social gatherings were not his forte. After a few minutes, an elderly gentleman approached, and Sherlock groaned inwardly at the thought of having to make polite small talk.

"You love him," the old man announced. Sherlock looked at him in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

The old man chuckled. "The man you arrived with. You love him. Are you two lovers?"

Sherlock did not blink at the bluntness of the question. Instead, he cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips as he thought for a moment. Then, his eyes grew clear and bright. "John Watson... is my oxygen. I could not breathe without him."

The man smiled and nodded. "I see." He paused. "You're lucky, both of you are. Make the most of it, true love is hard to find."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you." The gratitude in his voice was sincere. The old man winked and wandered away, leaving Sherlock to think about what the old man had told him. When John appeared beaming, Sherlock grabbed him and, ignoring the stares and whispers of the strangers around them, gave him a long, lingering kiss. When John pulled away, he looked flustered and giddy but very, very pleased.

"Blimey, Sherlock! Are you feeling okay?"

"Never better," Sherlock murmured, reaching down to lace his fingers with John's. It was true; Sherlock had never been happier, and it was all because of John. He knew they would face difficulties and hard times, every couple did. But if Sherlock Holmes was sure of one thing, it was that he would never let John Watson go. Never.


End file.
